


Mushrooms

by gingerjay



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Allergies, Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Doctor Whump, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Whouffaldi if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerjay/pseuds/gingerjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she’d taken bets on how her day was going to play out, this particular scenario would have been very long odds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mushrooms

Clara paces one circuit of the console, stopping at his elbow. He glances at her and quickly straightens his slumped posture, clenches his teeth to try to hide the chattering, but his hands betray him, fingers quivering as he tries to type with half-frozen fingers.

“You’re soaked,” she says, plucking at his sodden sleeve. “And you’re shivering.” 

His eyes dart to hers and return to the view screen.  Clara paces another round, this time stopping opposite him.  She stares at him until he glances up.

“We didn’t need to survey that godforsaken place,” she says. “Not today.  Not in the pouring rain.  It was nothing but mud and rocks and swamps.”

Her nose twitches as she recalls the smell of mold and damp soil. 

“Stop fussing, Clara,” he says, his voice hoarse and tired. 

When he thinks she isn’t looking, his elbows draw in, shoulders nearly touching his ears and he allows himself a hard shudder before returning to his cataloging. 

“I will fuss, thank you,” she says.  “Climbing halfway up a mountain with no gear? You’re lucky you didn’t slip and break your neck, and for what?” 

She gestures to the collection box between them.  

“Some slimy bits of fungus, that’s what.”

He clears his throat. Clara waits for him to speak, to defend himself. She knows she’s being strident and unfair but she’s worried and she always finds it difficult to be worried and act reasonable at the same time. He coughs instead and winces as he presses a hand against his chest. 

“And that’s another thing,” she says. “You sound like you’re coming down with a cold. You need to change into some dry clothes, have a hot drink and put your feet up.”

“Later,” he says and takes a deep, deliberate breath. “Now make yourself useful and hold this.” 

He indicates a tiny brown puffball inside a clear vial.  Clara unscrews the lid and dumps it into her palm.  She notices his look of horror too late and the mushroom tumbles out before she can stop it, a tiny cloud of dust rising from the top. 

“What was that?” she asks and waves her hand to clear the air.  He doesn’t answer as he pivots away from her, one hand gripping the edge of the console as a sudden hacking cough overtakes him.  

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” 

She hastily replaces the tiny mushroom and moves to his side.  He bends forward and braces his hands on his knees, barely able to catch his breath as the coughing continues. 

Clara knows that sound, the strident wheeze, remembers it from every terrifying time that Artie had suffered through an attack. She waits, one hand resting on his back until he uncurls, chest heaving, and wipes at his streaming eyes. 

“Come on,” she says and nudges him forward a little with one knee. He shoots a surprised look at her and she gives him an encouraging smile. Time enough for sympathy and cosseting when he’s feeling a bit better  He stumbles and she loops one arm through his as she leads him to the stairs. 

“Steps,” she says, in case he didn’t notice. “Lift your foot, there you go.”  

She counts them off as they climb slowly.  He pauses on the fifth riser, wraps his hand around the railing, sways in place.

“Let me….sit down,” he gasps.  

“Not yet,” she says, “We’re almost there.”  

She guides him past his leather armchair, through a narrow doorway and into the first room she finds at the beginning of the corridor. It’s a non-descript bedroom, not hers, probably not his. A narrow bed takes up most of the space but what Clara wants is the tiny en-suite. She raises her voice to say thank you, addressing no one in particular, but with a quick swell and fall of the engines, she knows the TARDIS hears her.

“In here,” she says, and he staggers, nearly falls.  His breathing is worsening and he’s starting to panic, eyes wide, fingers clutching at the neck of his jumper as if he could somehow force more air into his lungs. Clara eases him to the floor, making a soft shushing noise to keep him calm.  She steps to the side, reaches into the shower and with a hard twist of the handle, cranks the water as hot as it will go. She kneels in front of him.

“Breathe, Doctor,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Deep breaths. You’re going to be okay.” 

He grasps her forearms, the pressure nearly painful as he concentrates on the next breath and then the next. Steam begins to billow over the top of the shower enclosure and Clara leans over, pops open a cabinet door, grabs a towel to stuff under the crack of the door. The air is growing humid and close, but the grip on her arms is loosening and a little of the strain is beginning to leave his face.

She takes both of his hands in hers, rubs comforting circles on his knuckles with her thumbs. She’s having trouble seeing him now through the thick cloud of moist air but hears a single rattling cough.  _ That’s better _ , she thinks.  Better than the tight, strained cough that sounded like he was suffocating. She’s knows what’s coming next and when he coughs again, she presses another towel into his hands.

He takes a long shuddering breath and folds forward over his knees, his body convulsing with the force of the paroxysm that sweeps over him.  Clara sits quietly, her hand tracing a path from the damp curls at the nape of his neck to the center of his back. He trembles under her touch, whether from chills or exertion she can’t tell.

As the fit starts to ease Clara moves to the shower, turns off the water and opens the door a crack.  The cool air that rushes into the room is a welcome sensation and she sighs as she sinks back to the floor, lifting the hair from her neck. The steam dissipates slowly. The Doctor sits in an exhausted heap.  He looks completely done in but his breathing is normal again, if a little ragged.

“Feeling better?” she asks.

He smiles a quick blink-and-you-miss-it smile.  “Getting there.”  

“What the hell happened?” 

He winces at her words but she’s still unable to keep the frustration from her voice.  

“You’re not ill,” she says. “It wouldn’t happen that fast, would it?”

“Spores,” he says.  

Clara sits forward, not certain she’s heard him correctly.  

“Say that again.” 

“Mushroom spores.” He coughs, scrubs at his mouth and drops the towel to one side with a grimace. “ _ Lycoperdon perlatum  _ if we’re being scientific about it.  Well, a subspecies.”

“Sorry, Lyco...what?”

“That brown puffy mushroom you were flinging about the console room.”  

“You mean the one that blew out all the dust?” 

He nods. “You should have been more careful.”

“You didn’t tell me to be careful,” she says. “And I had no idea you were allergic to mushrooms.”

He drops his head forward, massages his neck with both hands before answering.

“I’m not. But I did happen to be crawling through a boggy forest in the middle of an entire colony of Lycoperdon when it started raining.”  

Clara stares at the crown of his head until he senses her gaze on him and lifts his head.

“Crawling,” he explains, “On my hands and knees, my face inches from a colony of mushrooms that disperse spores with touch pressure.  The raindrops were enough to trigger a simultaneous release. Caught me off guard. I didn’t have enough time to enter respiratory bypass and I inhaled a concentrated amount.”

“But you’re okay.”  Her tone makes it a statement rather than a question. His expression does not reassure her.

“For now,” he says. “But allergic alveolitis can run a protracted course.”  

He pinches the bridge of his nose and yawns hugely. Clara has no idea what allergic alveolitis is, but knows if she stays quiet long enough, he’ll explain.

“Inflammation of the respiratory system,” he says after a moment.  “Malaise. Fever. Headache. Nausea. It’s not--.” His voice trails off and he coughs. “It’s not over yet,” he mumbles, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes..  

Clara stands and extends her arm to him, wiggles her fingers impatiently as she waits for him to notice and take her hand. 

“Where are we going?”

“Comfy bed in the other room,” she says. “Think you could use some rest after you change.” 

He grasps her wrist and tries to stand but his legs give way. Clara catches him, hauls him up and helps him turn to face the doorway.  

“Are you sure I can’t just sleep here?” he asks. “The floor is comfy, too.”  

“Bedroom,” she says.  “Dry clothing. I’ll bring another towel.”  

He takes one comically large step, his feet tangle in a carelessly-placed scatter rug and he pitches forward, almost falling face-first into the middle of the room. He rights himself and glares at Clara as if it’s her fault.

“Do you need any help?” she asks, and hopes is answer is no, not certain she can wrangle a sleepy, loose-limbed Doctor into dry clothing. He shakes his head, already shrugging out of his hoodie.  

She ponders leaving the room, stepping into the corridor to give him a little privacy, but he’s still unsteady on his feet.  She keeps her back turned, wincing at the occasional crash of something being knocked over, the frustrated sound of muttered cursing that isn’t translated by the TARDIS.  

Clara squats to search the inside of a long, low cabinet against the front wall.  After the day he’s had, he could probably use a drink.  And she could definitely use a drink.  She pushes aside a pair of opera glasses, an unopened box of Jammie Dodgers and brings forward a half-filled decanter. Jackpot.  Unless he’s in the habit of hiding bottles of scotch all over, and who knows, maybe he is, the TARDIS is on top of her game tonight.  Only one glass, but that’s fine, they can share, it’s not like he’s contagious.

“Clara.”  The hoarse whisper comes from over her shoulder and she startles, almost drops the bottle.  “Don’t turn around.”

She is seized with the sudden urge to whirl on him but controls herself. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, trying to keep her tone casual.

“I’ve changed out of my wet clothing.”

“Good for you.” She pours out two fingers into a lowball and replaces the stopper. “Next step is putting on dry clothes.” 

“That may be a problem,” he says.  “I can’t find anything.”  

Clara squeezes her eyes shut.  Dear god, she does not want to ask, does not want to know the answer, but can’t stop the words from spilling out.

“Doctor,” she says as she presses her fingers against her temples.  “Are you  _ naked _ ? _ ” _

“Very nearly.”

She’d enjoyed a lovely morning. Peaceful. A leisurely breakfast at a recently-opened outdoor cafe, an unhurried read of her new novel. If she’d taken bets on how her day was going to play out, this particular scenario would have been very long odds.  

“There’s a blanket on the bed,” she says in the most patient voice she can manage. “Wrap up in that and I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear.” 

She waits, listening intently until the scuffling noises stop and the emphatic squeak of bedsprings indicates he’s sitting down. She turns around, glass in hand.  He’s wrapped up well, only his disgruntled face and a pair of very knobby knees visible from underneath the duvet.

She raises her eyebrows and gestures with the tumbler. 

“Drink?” she says. “You’ve had kind of a rough day.”

“Too tired.” 

His face grows slack, his eyes unfocus and he flops backward, landing with a soft whump.  The edges of the blanket fall open, revealing a tiny sliver of tummy between the edge of his t-shirt and pants. Not completely naked, then.  Clara breathes a sigh of relief.  He’ll be comfortable enough, if a little chilly.

She takes a quick swallow of the drink and presses the back of her hand to her mouth as she chokes.  Strong stuff.  She sets the glass on the bedside table, plucks the thick towel from the bed, kneels near his head and begins to gently dry his hair. He frowns but says nothing.  She works slowly, pressing the moisture from each curl.

“Your hair is wet,” she explains.  “And it might still have mushroom dust in it.”

“Spores,” he mumbles.

“Spores, then.”

She lifts his head gently, tucks the towel underneath.

“TARDIS,” he says, his voice a sleepy slur. “Microfiltration.” 

“Well, maybe I just wanted an excuse to play with your hair.” 

She’s never seen his face more relaxed.  She stands, tosses the towel into the bathroom, uncertain of what to do next.  He’s probably okay for now, but nausea and malaise? What if he’s sick later and too weak to help himself?  She takes a step toward the door, then a step back to him.  Maybe there’s another room nearby and she can check on him through the night.  Maybe she can fetch a book and a chair and sit with him.

He’s already snoring softly when he suddenly frowns.  He untangles one hand from the duvet without opening his eyes and begins to search the bed as far as his arm will extend.

“Clara?” he murmurs.

She moves closer to the bed, touches his shoulder lightly.  

“Open your eyes, Doctor, I‘m right here.” 

He seems not to hear her and his patting grows a little more frantic.  

“Clara, where are you?” 

She lifts his arm and slides in next to him. He quiets and presses close to her, throwing one bare leg across hers, trapping her to the surface of the bed.  His arm curls around her as he nuzzles his face into her shoulder. 

"Here I am," she says.

"Good." 

"How are you feeling?"

"Not so good."

“Then we’re in for an exciting evening, huh?” she says.

He murmurs something inaudible and she stretches toward the half-full glass on the table, making certain she can reach it if necessary.  It might come in handy later.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for August 2015 Challenge  
> Prompts Used: Allergies, Powerless, Soothe, Hands


End file.
